


Feel The Sin & Feed The Holy

by TentacleVamp



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Blasphemy, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, F/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 13:04:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16640654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TentacleVamp/pseuds/TentacleVamp
Summary: A cycle. Something which repeats itself, over and over, till it no longer resembles what it once was. Instead, it becomes a crippled horror. Who traps you in this man made hell with its sharp teeth set on your ankles.--Re-Imagined AHS: Apocalypse with a lot more blasphemy & dysfunctional families!





	Feel The Sin & Feed The Holy

**Author's Note:**

> So the finale broke my heart and shattered my expections for Murphy's writing.. It only took eight seasons fml. But it did give me the push to try my hand at this universe. So here we are! Hope you enjoy!

A cycle. Something which repeats itself, over and over, till it no longer resembles what it once was. Instead, it becomes a crippled horror. Who traps you in this man made hell with its sharp teeth set on your ankles.

Making sure the other paths are in your rear-review, just outside the corner of your eye, shining, tempting, _yearning_ \-- for the steps you’ll never take.

And the worst part?

You don’t realize you’re in a cycle till your neck deep in the dirt and mud. The light which shined on you up _up_ above; just out of reach.

A melodramatic insight, no? Well. Michael supposes he earned his flair for the dramatic from his father.

Not the naïve boy corrupted by the darkness. Or the origin of his spirit. But his _first_ Father.

The Man who made him alongside his opposite. When all they knew was _Him_ and the dark bottomless space which surrounded them. Before He abandoned him for a lesser child. Before that light, which he trusted completely and truly, took him by the neck and pushed him down _down_ ; to the horrifying ends of the earth. And he was made King of its atrocities.

The cycle, after. Repeat and repeat of the same goddamn violence and betrayal and carnage. And Him as the only conscious audience.

 _Yes_ , Michael supposes, _of course I’d have the same inclinations as the unfeeling tyrant who created this shitty world to begin with._

Self-awareness doesn’t come cheap, however.

But Michael knows he’s earned it.

They’ve _both_ earned it.

 

* * *

 

His dark cape flows through the wind as they approach the Hawthorne School. Michael has timed it perfectly. Madison and Queenie walk by his side, all dressed in black and flowing elegance. Freshly brought back from the dead. Making an entrance, as Ms. Meade once told him, is _key_ to having everyone’s attention.

“As they should, Michael. As everyone will, once you come into power.” She reassured him in a mother’s voice, with a touch of a sinner’s hand.

So, he makes sure Cordelia sees him and her two girls; especially the one she forgot ever existed. The proof is undeniable then. _Gut-wrenching_ , Ms. Meade would say, with a smile. The Supreme isn’t the be-all end-all of monsters. How sad.

Michael walks, smirks, catches her eye as she falls down. Satisfaction swims in his being. He had a point to prove, and he did. In a stylish fashion no less. But then.

_But then._

There’s a new witch amongst the heretics. Dark deep eyes are latched onto his. Chestnut brushed gold marries her head and her small pink lips are open in shock. The state of her Supreme is not what bothers the young witch, though. Oh, no. Her attention is _all_ on Michael.

And then, all his attention is on her.

For a moment, he forgets his name. His destiny. For a moment, all he can see is a light which shines too bright. But in warmth. Always in warmth. Michael turns very still, no longer caring if his graceful front falls. He _missed_ it, he realizes. He missed the soul drenched in it.

When he was young, and still learning how to kill rodents, Michael remembers having dreams of this very same light. How it called to him even in his darkest impulses. He remembers a desperation settling in, remaining even after he woke up from such nightmares.

Michael used to cry to Constance, “The light, grandma. The _light_!”

And his caretaker would frown and sigh and then sleep next to him with the light turned on.

He thought maybe it mocked him – _could it? Could something as_ good _be capable of such cruelty?_ – only appearing when it wanted to be seen, never when Michael pleaded for it. Always out of reach.

The child had thoughts of grabbing it the next time he saw it, hold it in his tiny hands and never let it go.

 _Even if it burns_ , thought the stubborn boy.

Even if his hands boiled and his beauty was stripped away like a sheet, even if he had to feel the taste of scalding coal again and again and again—

 _Oh. So this is it_ , he realizes, _this is what longing feels like._

 

* * *

Take, take, take. Take their bodies and their souls and everything they are. This is what the cycle has done to them. It chews on you, piece by piece, till your core is barely there. You become a whimper of what you once were.

The memories stick together like honey on skin. Sweet, but unwelcome. It rushes into his ears and almost knocks Michael off his feet.

His sweet dear – _what should I call you? Brother? Is that what we are? Family? Or pets to a mad doll maker?_ – sincerity, commitment, warmth.

“But you’re warmer.”

“No. My warmth turns dangerous,” he’d warned. “It burns if you get too close.”

“I don’t mind it if it means I can have your company,” the other had confessed, a long long time ago.

And Michael would be the liar people presume him to be, if he said that comment hadn’t made his heart beat too fast; and his selfishness grow twice as large.

 

* * *

 

The first time is the most gruesome. Resentment hasn’t had time to mourn. They fight with sticks and stones and their own bloody hands. The waves grow bigger and harsher and the wind shouts with their rage. Before it washes them away and the world begins anew.

 

* * *

 

He remembers a moment of pettiness. When he waited till his opposite realized what kind of game they were both in. The moment his eyes understood his role – Michael slashed his own throat. Tainting him with new blood to go with the fiery skies and plagues. He was pleased at the horrified expression. Let him live this life, he had decided, with the knowledge his gifts were given by a monster – the one who made him worship false gods when He knew He was a jealous one.

 

* * *

 

He enjoys this time the best. The pleasures it gives him are something akin to heaven. If heaven was soaked in hypocrisy and arrogance; which, maybe, it is. The art, the food, the long indulgent talks they would have. Miscommunication, however, is a gift they both shared. Perhaps the last straw was the painting of his true self: tear-eyed and angry and despairing, painted alongside devils and angels and familiar faces. His opposite paid dearly for that, didn’t he. Ostracized and stripped from the pleasures they had enjoyed. Michael cannot fault the spitefulness the other showed. Why other reason would he throw himself of a window?

 

* * *

 

A memory sticks out like a sore thumb. When she burned at the cross, shouting her innocence to the very end. At the time, Michael isn’t sure why he slashed the neck of every last being in that god forsaken town. They’ve given in to fear and hate, like he wanted. Like he preached at the false chapel. Compassion she pleaded for was squashed beneath his heel. Yet, the screams… The screams kept him awake for a whole week straight. And by the end he saw no other solution than to obviate this stain from the earth.

 

* * *

 

How much more can any of them take?

“None of you are your Father,” Lilith had told him. When he was too weak and too tired to break her pretty face once more. “You are not a God. You’ll _never_ be a God. You cannot create something out of nothing. And this will never end otherwise, will it? You got caught in the quicksand, Luci. _Tsk, tsk._ Too deep, too deep.”

Lilith knew the best way to eviscerate a man’s heart was with the ugliest truth. He taught her well. His small beating heart had filled with pride. Even if he, at the moment, had wished he had the strength to skin her alive.

“I wonder, however, if your brother knew this before he gave himself fully to Father’s whims. Maybe he was just as clueless as you, my Lord. Or maybe… Maybe he knew he’d lose a bit of himself, over and over. And he didn’t care,” she had titled her head, making long dark hair drip over his shoulders. Olive hands brushed his cheeks. “He has the soul of a martyr, after all. Didn’t he push his own brother to Hell because Daddy told him to? Who does that, if not someone who enjoys suffering righteously.”

“You think he suffered?” He had rasped. “Show me his scars, and I have a thousand more.”

“Oh, _Luci_ ,” Lilith had hummed, voice too high to be deemed true compassion. “We both know it’s the scars we don’t see which last the longest. The ones that _stick_. You think Daddy didn’t fuck him up like He did us? You should know better. Has your last visit taught you nothing?”

He had winched at her words, almost breaking the mask of the monster he wore on every corner of this wretched earth.

Lilith had sighed. And then put her hands around his red sickly neck.

“You truly are your Father’s son,” she had told him, squeezing tighter and tighter. “Too absorbed in your own rage to see there are other things hidden beneath. But you did see them _that_ time, didn’t you, my Lord? And you’ll see them again this time, too. You think you won’t because you’ve planned it all so well, isn’t that right? The cursed house, those lost tainted souls, the family and the boy and your seed on his cock. Yes, yes. And turning His precious children – the ones He picked as your replacement – against Him? Brilliant, my lord. _Brilliant._ You’ve gathered an army for your next self to rule and finally accomplish what you’ve set out to do. Annihilate this infested diseased earth! Yes, Luci. You’ve got your pawns all set out for you. You just have to remember which ones go first and which ones go last,” her giggle had danced in his ears as his eyes began to shut, “But you always forget about your own sentiment.”

And the cycle starts again.

 

* * *

 

_Longing._

Michael knows she has it too. A step the young witch took, and not in the direction of her Supreme, but of the flame who shined so bright it turned to nothing. Yes. She took that step. And she looked into Michael’s eyes. Tear-eyed and angry and despairing. She knew.

“Mallory,” he calls to her, smile too bright. “I’ve missed you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me an ask at @tentaclevamp on tumblr if you wanna chat!


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